


Big Hands

by WeDidItKiddo



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Christmas Eve, College AU, Facts about the past, Hallway hockey tournament, I think you know where this is going, Or do you, Snow Storm, University, University dorm room, shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeDidItKiddo/pseuds/WeDidItKiddo
Summary: University Hall, McGill University, Montreal. About the shit show that is Christmas Eve 2008, and the hallway hockey tournament that reveals some interesting facts about the past.
Relationships: Scott Moir & Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Comments: 19
Kudos: 64





	1. Big Hands

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, two disclaimers:
> 
> 1\. I’ve never written an AU before. Ever. So if this is shit, I sincerely apologize. (Please don’t leave me?)  
> 2\. This is the most unlike the ‘real’ Tessa and Scott I’ve ever written their characters. It was a fic that kind of stumbled into being, so I just... let it happen. Literally: most of this either wasn’t planned or looked entirely differently in my head.
> 
> Hope I could translate the fun in my head onto your screen. Happy reading!

_University Hall, McGill University, Montreal_

_December 24, 2008_

**4:47 p.m.**

It’s the persistent banging on the door of her dorm room that drives Tessa crazy more so than the situation she finds herself in roughly seven hours before the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve.

Which, arguably, is already quite a shit show in and of itself.

Not that she gets to blame anyone but herself for it. After all, _she_ was the one who insisted on staying at university to work on her dissertation. She couldn’t have known the most severe snowstorm of 2008 was going to hit two hours before she was supposed to leave for the airport, deterring any chance of her actually getting home on Christmas Eve, but Montreal’s weather history could have been a clue. 

Okay, so she does get to blame the weather. But right now, in the midst of the chaos that is her dissertation prep and her roommate rushing around to finish packing before her parents come and pick her up, the only one she’s directing mental curses at is herself.

Oh, and the jerk from down the hall, who has been attempting to shoot a hockey puck through their door for seven minutes straight now.

“Please don’t forget to eat, sleep or do any of the basic activities that should keep you alive until I’m back,” her roommate, Jamie, says as she halts her frantic packing to shove her glasses up her nose. “I would let you perish in here, but I’d hate to come back to smell. I like this room too much.”

“Will do,” Tessa says, lifting one finger to acknowledge she’s heard her threat. Unlike anybody else she knows, Jamie has the sensitivity of a statue, which took some getting used to in the beginning.

Now, a few months into their time as roommates, it’s hard to imagine sharing a living space with someone who doesn’t insult her on a daily basis.

(The Spaghetti Disaster in the second week of the semester might’ve attributed to their bonding as well. Burned pasta (courtesy of Tessa Virtue), fire alarms going off, the entire residence being forced to leave the building... hilarity and a lasting friendship ensued.) 

Jamie gives her an eerie glare of the rim of her glasses, undoubtedly checking whether she can trust Tessa not to kill herself in the two weeks they won’t see each other.

“No cooked meals,” Tessa says when she can feel her stare burning a hole into the back of her head. “Pinky promise.”

“You better.” Jamie points a finger at her with fierce intensity in her eyes before she goes back to pulling clothes out of her wardrobe, throwing them vaguely in the direction of the growing pile in her suitcase.

(Heaven only knows where she stashed half of that stuff for an entire semester.)

With a sigh and a mildly unsettling feeling at the thought that she’s already way behind schedule, Tessa pulls one knee up to her chest and leans over her desk to check the courtyard through the window as Jamie is muttering a mantra of curse words behind her.

Apart from one girl who’s braving the snowstorm outside, all the lights are out. Official confirmation that she, Jamie and the jerk from down the hall are the only students left at Uni Hall.

Which, you know, isn’t really surprising, given that their exams ended about a week ago.

“AND YOU, FARM BOY, STOP BANGING THAT DAMN HOCKEY PUCK AGAINST OUR DOOR.”

Tessa’s head whips around at the sound of Jamie’s voice and the room goes silent, as does the hallway.

It’s one of those stunned silences that can only be created by someone who never raises their voice. The only previous instance in which Jamie felt the need to yell was the night of the Spaghetti Disaster, when some girls on the floor below theirs refused to evacuate the building.

The silence turns heavy, almost expectant, and Jamie’s focus shifts to her suitcase like nothing happened. 

When the banging on the door returns three seconds later, Tessa groans loudly and buries her face in her textbook on the fundamentals of project management, finally gaining her roommate’s compassion.

“Look at it this way,” Jamie says. “Instead of worrying you’ll set the building on fire, I now have to worry about you committing murder instead.”

“Which is better because...?”

“The damage is significantly smaller, duh. I told you I like this room too much.” She gives Tessa one of her rare smiles as she parks her now zipped up suitcase next to the door and grabs her coat. “And might I remind you that you are an absolute _fool_ for staying here for Christmas.”

“I can’t exactly trek home to London in the snow, Jamie. It’s not my fault that my flight got canceled.”

“No, but you could’ve left earlier so you would’ve made it home in time.”

“I’m fully aware, thanks for the confirmation.” Another puck hits their door. Having given up on focusing any of her attention on project management, Tessa turns her stare to the door now, her eyes narrowing in a warning he can’t see on the other side.

“The dining hall won’t even be open until next semester,” Jamie pushes.

“I’ll make toast.”

“WE AGREED ON NO COOKING. That includes using a toaster.”

“Bread. I’ll eat bread and dip it in butter.”

Honestly, even bread might not be a safe option after that one time she failed to notice the entire loaf was molded until _after_ she’d eaten three slices. And that was last week.

“Bread is better,” Jamie says.

“Got it. Now get out of here before you miss your dinner.” For a brief moment, Tessa considers getting up and hugging Jamie goodbye, even though their friendship isn’t the affectionate kind. If anything, they’re the I-would-save-you-from-a-fire-but-I-will-kill-you-if-you-touch-my-jar-of-peanut-butter kind.

None of that stops the brick from dropping into her stomach at the realization that she’s going to spend Christmas Eve on her own.

“Are you really going to be fine?” Jamie asks, sensing that this is a defining moment in their friendship that could very well lead to her adopting Tessa for Christmas and introducing her to her entire family.

God, the horror. 

“Yes, absolutely,” Tessa says. “Tell your family I wish them a merry Christmas. Happy holidays.”

“Whatever the hell that means.” Jamie gives her a characteristic smirk, which is very on-brand with her mild hatred for the consumer-fed craziness at the end of the year.

Giving Tessa one last salute, she opens the door, and in doing so rudely interrupts the one-man hockey game that’s going on in the hallway. She undoubtedly gives the jerk from down the hall a death stare as she barges past him, yelling a goodbye that already sounds distant before the door has even shut.

Tessa is left staring at the life-size poster of Edward Cullen on the back of the door (Jamie’s addition to the room) for a good five seconds or so before she resolutely turns back to her books, diligently staying on track with her study schedule.

At least, for the next two minutes or so.

After that, the puck banging against the door is back, louder than ever in the silence Jamie left behind. She slowly turns in her chair until she’s facing the poster again, shooting daggers with her eyes at the guy behind the perfect jawline and the intense golden-eyed stare. 

If only she were the only person currently trapped in their residence hall, this night could’ve been bearable.

“MOIR! I FUCKING TOLD YOU TO _KNOCK IT_ _OFF_!”

There is silence, blissful, heavenly silence, for a moment or two before the puck hits the door which such force that she physically jumps out of her chair, finally stomping away from her desk to confront him.

It isn’t until she throws open the door and nearly gets hit in the face with a hockey stick that she realizes her current outfit consists of a pajama shirt, sweats, fuzzy socks and a bathrobe.

“Niceeee,” Scott says as he lowers the hockey stick and looks her up and down, making a monstrous effort to keep in a snort when his gaze reaches her socks.

They’re her pink bunny ones. The ones that have actual ears on them.

Unfortunately for him, though, Tessa isn’t having any of this.

“I promise you I will kick you in the crotch if you shoot that puck at our door one more time.”

There’s a glimmer of surprise in his eyes as he raises a brow, or maybe it’s merely apprehension. “Sounds good to me. My roommate is gone until the end of winter break, so if you want to swing b—OOFFF."

Tessa’s right knee meets his genitals, reducing him to a wheezing mess as he sags down to the floor at her feet.

“The _fuck_?” he squeaks, struggling to catch his breath. “I didn’t shoot the puck at your door again, did I?”

“No, but you were being a jerk.”

It’s a shame, really. The day she moved into her room, she thought they could've been friends. They bonded over the fact that neither of them spoke a decent word of French in a French-speaking province, which they still don’t.

Well, as far as she knows, he doesn’t. A few days into the second week of the semester, right after the Spaghetti Disaster, he and his roommate, Ollie, trashed a window in the midst of a self-organized hallway hockey tournament. Ever since then, they’ve been known as “the jerks from down the hall”. She hasn’t properly spoken to him since. 

Giving him a disinterested glare, she digs around in the pocket of her bathrobe to check if she has her key before she carefully steps over him in the direction of the communal kitchen.

“You’re Tessa, right?” his voice sounds from the floor behind her.

“Positive.” She pulls up the hood of her bathrobe, burying her hands in the pockets as she treks down the hallway without looking back.

Should she check on him to make sure he’s okay? Probably.

But had that punch also been three months in the making? Hell yes.

“Where the fuck are you going, Tessa?”

“Getting food,” she calls over her shoulder just as she rounds the corner.

As expected, the main stairwell is completely deserted. She doesn’t bump into anyone as she makes her way down to the deserted communal kitchen in her pajamas, celebrating another minor victory when she remembers the chicken casserole her mom and sister brought her when they came to visit at the end of her exams.

Back upstairs, the hallway is empty again. His absence could mean one of two things: either he’s given up, or he’s planning a comeback so epic she won’t be ready when he strikes.

Preparing herself for the second possibility, she leaves her door open to avoid a surprise attack and flops down on her desk chair with the casserole dish.

She’s halfway through her dinner and the third chapter of her book when his voice startles her anyway.

“Are you eating that _cold_?”

Her head shoots up, still chewing on a bite of (yes, cold) chicken casserole. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t. I was curious.” He slides down against the wall in the hallway and installs himself right in front of her room, which is the first moment she realizes he’s pressing a bag of frozen peas against his groin area.

She shoves another bite of chicken in her mouth to keep herself from smiling.

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?” she asks when she’s almost done with the chicken casserole and he’s still sitting there doing absolutely nothing but stare at her. She can’t think of another reason why he would still be here on Christmas Eve, unless his flight got canceled as well.

“Maybe.”

“What are you still doing here, then?”

He gives her a smile, pushing himself upright. “Enjoying the view. Obviously.”

She rolls her eyes at him, turning back to her books. If anything, that cocky remark just confirmed he totally deserved that punch earlier.

He leaves the hallway shortly after that, giving her the opportunity to finish reading the chapter. But just as she flips the last page, the opening notes of Phil Collins’ _In The Air Tonight_ suddenly blast through the hallway.

Throwing her fork into the casserole dish out of pure frustration, she yanks on the belt of her bathrobe to tighten the knot and stomps to the end of the hallway, bursting through his unlocked door.

“This is not going to work if we don’t sync up our study breaks. I’m serious.”

Scott twirls around in his chair like he’s surprised to see her standing in his room, a puck perfectly balanced on the hockey stick he’s holding over his head. She doesn’t know what she’s most surprised by; the fact that the room isn’t a total disaster, or the opened textbooks on his desk and bed that suggest he actually studied at some point today.

He gets up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he drops the puck and digs a hat and gloves out of his dresser.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Getting food,” he says. He doesn’t even sound like he’s joking. “You want some? I’m getting Chinese.”

“I had chicken casserole,” she says.

“You had _cold_ chicken casserole. I can get you some _hot_ dumplings, if you want.”

She stares at him as he pulls the hat over his ears, wondering how she ended up in a situation where the jerk from down the hall is inviting her to share Chinese food on Christmas Eve after she punched him in the nuts not even ten minutes earlier.

Absolute madness.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she ends up saying when he shoulders past her. He leaves his door wide open like she did earlier.

He turns in the middle of the hallway to shrug his shoulders at her. “Suit yourself.”

Then, when the Phil Collins song that’s still playing in his room reaches _that_ part, he closes his eyes; slowly raising his arms as the music builds, he hits the air drums perfectly in tune with the music.

He's still playing the drums and singing along when he disappears down the staircase. Tessa stares after him until she can’t hear him anymore; confused, surprised, and although she will never admit it, also a tad amused.

* * *

**6:25 p.m.**

“Here, dumplings. And noodles, I got you your own container. For being a jerk earlier.”

He drops the food on her desk without warning. Her fault: she should’ve shut the door.

She flies out of her chair to save her textbooks before the greasy food stains every page. Struggling to get over the surprise of 1) him entering her room without her noticing, 2) his complete disregard of her refusal to share Chinese food earlier, and 3) the lack of arrogance on his face when he smiles down at her, she hovers at her desk with the bag of food.

“Uh—thanks?”

“I couldn’t allow you to eat cold chicken casserole on Christmas Eve,” he says as he sits down on the edge of Jamie’s bed. “And I know you’re studying, so feel free to ignore me. I promise I’m a quiet eater.”

She gapes at him, blinking a few times to check if her eyes aren’t deceiving her.

Nope, they aren’t. He’s still here in her room, sitting on Jamie’s bed, his hat and hoodie covered in a thin layer of snow and a deep red blush on his cheeks.

“What are you doing?” she asks, because seriously, _what is he doing?_

“Syncing our study breaks.” He starts unloading his own food on his lap, making sure he doesn’t touch Jamie’s covers after flashing his eyes up at her and meeting a warning pair of green ones. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up.”

“The only thing I’m worried about is you leaving stains on my roommate’s bed.”

Is it, though? Isn’t there also the slightest hint of worry that he might not be as big of a douche as she thought he was?

“I won’t make a mess,” he says, feverishly digging into his food like this is his first meal of the day. The room is silent now apart from his plastic fork digging into the noodles and the occasional sniffling; she turned off his stereo installation earlier after he left to get food.

Silence.

Huh.

Is this really all it took to get him to stop being obnoxious? Some noodles and a place to sit on Jamie’s bed (who would absolutely kill Tessa if she knew)?

She decides not to question this surprising turn of events and possibly risk him switching back to jerk mode, dropping back down on her chair and taking a bite of her own noodles while she starts making notes on incorporating stakeholder management in the project planning process.

All the while obstinately ignoring the little voice in her head that’s telling her not being the only one who’s currently trapped in their residence hall may be exactly what’s going to make this night bearable.

* * *

**8:12 p.m.**

“How long until our break?”

It’s the first thing he’s said since promising her he wouldn’t make a mess on Jamie’s bed, which he hasn’t. The room has been quiet ever since, apart from the occasional rustling of pages and the popping of marker caps. Oh, and the chewing on every plastic object that’s within his reach, a disgusting habit she’s tried not to pay any attention to.

Her eyes don’t immediately leave the page she’s on, her mind still surfacing from the material she’s been completely absorbed in for the past hour or so. “Hm?”

“How long until our break?” he repeats, sounding a little less patient and a little more like he wants to jump out of the window.

She finally tears her eyes and attention away from her books to look at him, finding him smothering his face with his textbook. Jamie’s bed has turned into a disaster zone scattered with loose pieces of paper and highlighters, and it triggers a surge of something she would dare to call sympathy.

“You alright?”

He looks up like she couldn’t have asked a more redundant question, blinking a few times before he answers. “ _Should_ I be? I have a deadline I’m never going to meet and a subject I don’t understand. Other than that, I’m perfectly fine, thanks for asking.”

“Anything I can help you with?” She rolls her chair over to Jamie’s bed, peering over his shoulder at the book he chucks away in frustration.

“Yeah, taking away my nerves would be helpful.” In a surprisingly vulnerable motion, he covers his face with his hands and leans back on the bed.

She almost can’t help but smile at him. “It’s good to be nervous, you know. The fact that you’re nervous means that you care. So embrace it, because it’s a whole lot scarier to feel indifferent.”

He moves his fingers to peek through them. “You got some unlined paper?”

“No. Jamie does, but I wouldn’t risk touching her stuff if I were you.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Scott looks around the room until he locates Jamie’s printer underneath her desk.

Tessa looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. “She will kill you if I tell her, and I will because she’s my roommate. I’m not kidding.”

“Isn’t she supposed to be the quiet one? I haven’t heard her say a word all semester, except for the yelling earlier today. She likes the occasional yelling, doesn’t she?”

Tessa gives him a sideways roll of her eyes, facing the fact that arguing about her roommate is probably how she’s going to spend the rest of her study break. “Well, you know what they say about still waters...”

His forehead smooths out, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. “ _You’re_ a quiet one and I’m pretty sure I can read you like a book.”

“Oh, really?” She slips off her chair and onto her bed opposite him. If they’re going to go down the psychology road, she might as well get comfortable.

“Yeah. For example, I can tell you’re a terrible cook.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Everyone in this building knows.”

“You study a business degree and you’re freakishly smart, so you probably also skipped a grade.”

“How would you know I’m freakishly smart?”

He motions at the study schedule on her cork board. “You stayed here after your exams and you made a study schedule for _Christmas Eve_ , for heaven's sake. Classic smart people stuff.” He lets his gaze linger with a little too much confidence in his smile. “You skipped a grade, didn’t you?”

She did.

“I’m not freakishly smart.”

“... which makes you annoyingly humble as well. It’s not cute, T.”

“Tessa.”

“You hate it when people call you Tessa.”

Okay, that _is_ scarily accurate.

“How do you—”

“We live in the same hallway, I’ve heard you talking to other people. It’s not rocket science.” He shrugs in a way that is probably supposed to be cocky, but for some reason it’s not.

He’s not being cocky at all.

Does that make her flimsy or just really, really tired?

“She will kill you,” she says when he finally sneaks some paper out of Jamie’s printer.

“I will buy her another pack.”

“Why do I have a feeling you won’t?”

“Why do I have a feeling _you’re_ not as good at reading people as you think you are?”

She huffs offendedly. If he’s trying to win her over with his smooth talking, that’s going to get him nowhere. “I never said I was good at reading people.”

“No, but out of all the guys in this building, you can’t even judge the most open-hearted one correctly.”

She snorts loudly, but there’s a nervous buzz in her belly when she pulls her pillow to her chest. Something about him is making her feel extremely on edge, and she doesn’t like it.

“Okay, how about this,” she prompts, shifting over the covers until her back hits the wall and blocking him from view with her pillow. “I think that behind all that arrogance, you’re hiding a shitload of insecurities. They’re the same insecurities that keep you from forming deep, meaningful relationships with people, and you’re loud to make up for that shortcoming. Am I getting close?”

She discards the pillow, finding him staring back at her with a guarded look in his eyes.

She doesn’t know what it is about the way he’s sitting on Jamie’s bed, half collapsed against the wall and his hair an imploded mess around his head, but she’s suddenly very aware that the jerk from down the hall doesn’t look nearly as arrogant and intimidating when it’s just the two of them in her room, engaging in an amount of unbroken eye contact that would make anyone uncomfortable.

And yet she’s not. _She’s not uncomfortable._

Then, like a crack appearing out of nowhere in a perfectly smooth slab of ice, his mouth quirks up in a grin.

“ _What_?”

“Nothing,” he says, amused by her micro-moment of frustration. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be that much of a curser, that’s all.”

She chucks the pillow at him, hard. “How’s your groin?”

“Fine, thank you. That reminds me: I’m adding ‘kicker’ to the list.” He doubles down over the piece of printer paper.

“What list?”

“My list about you. Kicker, quiet, freakishly smart, curser... You’re building yourself quite the resumé, T.”

“Tessa.”

“Nope.”

“Fine. But only if I get to call you ‘Scotty’.”

“Not for all the money in the world, T.”

* * *

**10:36 p.m.**

They’ve gotten through nearly three hours of synchronized studying when Tessa’s brain is starting to feel fried.

It’s still twenty minutes until their next break, but she’s spent. She’s read the same sentence five times now without retaining any information. Meanwhile, he seems fine, which is more than suspicious.

Also, the edge is still there, and she’s still on it. He’s the main reason, but she’s no longer sure if she wants to do something about it.

She swivels her desk chair slightly to the right. In a plastic tub underneath Jamie’s bed is a very small, very unimpressive stash of liquor that Jamie's sister gifted to her as a rite of passage when she left home for college. Neither Tessa nor Jamie is much of a drinker, which is why the contents of the box are still untouched, but the promise of sedation has never been more inviting.

“Is Jamie dealing pot or something?” Scott finally asks.

She jumps a little. “What makes you think that?”

“You’ve been staring at that box for at least thirty seconds now. I did too earlier, but that was because I didn’t know what was in it. Now I’m really starting to suspect it’s pot.”

“It’s alcohol,” she deadpans. “Plain, simple alcohol.”

She can see the wheels in his head starting to turn. He’s absolutely shit at hiding it, but then again, she wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either.

“Alcohol,” he says.

“Yes,” she says.

“And... I assume Jamie would kill us if we were to touch said alcohol?”

Truthfully, Jamie probably wouldn’t notice until the end of next term.

“Yes.”

A grin creeps over his face. She waited a beat too long before answering and she knows it.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says.

“I wouldn’t be thinking about it if you hadn’t brought it up.”

“I didn’t bring it up.”

“You were _staring_ at the box.”

“Oh, what, so I’m not allowed to stare?”

He checks his watch. “Technically, no. Not for the next twenty minutes.”

For some reason, she didn’t think he was keeping track of their study schedule this closely.

She stares at the box again. He stares at her and grins.

“I have a suggestion.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Sure you do.” He discards his books, gets up and leaves without a warning. When he returns fifteen seconds later, he's carrying two hockey sticks and an even bigger grin on his face. “You, me, hallway hockey. For every goal, we both take a shot. The game ends when one of us scores ten goals.”

“Loser replaces Jamie’s alcohol stash?” she asks. She can’t believe she’s going along with this.

Because she is, isn’t she?

“Loser buys the first plane tickets out of this hellhole.” He presses one of the hockey sticks in her hands, getting closer than she likes. “We both need a flight to London, so that should include the cab ride.”

“Again, _how_ do you know this stuff?” He’s let go of the hockey stick and it hasn’t fallen to the ground yet, which means she's holding it. She’s about to play a game of hallway hockey with the jerk who’s been annoying the entire floor since the second week of the semester.

Come to think of it, she doesn’t even know when he stopped being annoying.

“I told you I’m good at reading people.” He grins, and he’s still too close, and then he swings his stick through the air and backs up in the direction of the hallway. “Plus, you used to skate at my hometown rink, which my mom happens to own. But that’s another story.”

He leaves the room without taking the alcohol, presumably to set up the goal posts for their game, and Tessa is left standing in the middle of the room staring at the ghost image of him.

How many times is he going to leave her speechless like this in one night?

“I want the story,” she says, walking out into the hallway with the hockey stick.

“The liquor box,” he reminds her from his doorway, where he’s setting up the second goal post.

She goes back to get the liquor box. When everything is set up, she physically blocks his way with her hockey stick. “I want the story.”

He regards her for a few seconds, narrowing his eyes slightly. “A goal for a story.”

“I thought we were already taking a shot.”

“Winner takes a shot and gets to ask a question, loser gets to take a shot to soften the blow. I like it better that way.”

She thinks about her study schedule, and about his bag of peas from earlier, and about Jamie’s face when she eventually finds out they got into her liquor stash. 

“We’re still supposed to be studying for the next eighteen minutes,” she says.

“I started drawing hockey games on my notes an hour ago," he says. "It’s almost Christmas. Live a little, T.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Great,” he says.

And with a grin goofier than she was prepared for but probably should have been expecting, he launches the first puck straight into the ceiling.

* * *

**11:03 p.m.**

“AND HE GETS IN THERE, PAST VIRTUE, AND HE GOES AND SCOREEEEESSSS!”

Tessa wants to put her head through the wall, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s scored five goals in a row while she hasn’t even gotten close to his goal post. It has everything to do with the fact that this is his fifth goal that is accompanied by a commentary like this, and it’s starting to get old.

The losing, but also the smug look on his face when he gets to ask her for a story. And the stories are what he seems to be getting more and more excited about.

“Childhood dream,” he says, sitting down and taking a big gulp from the mug he’s using for the shots. “I want to know everything. Go.”

Tessa puts the stick in her neck and hooks her wrists around it. She’s hot and breathing heavily, and she’s surprised by how entertaining the tournament has been so far, if it weren’t for the personal details she has to share after every match. The alcohol is fine: more than fine, actually.

“Ballet,” she says simply. She knows the kind of response that answer will elicit, which is why she doesn’t even bother looking him in the eye.

“That’s not a story,” he remarks.

“Do you need a more elaborate answer than that? I loved ballet as a kid, the end.” She looks down at him.

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that. Weren’t you a skater at one point?”

She locks her jaw. Thank god for the alcohol. “I was, but I chose ballet. And then I chose school. And then I chose school again when I went to university.”

“Aha. Is this one of those childhood dreams that’s still unfulfilled?”

“Nope. I’m perfectly fine with my decision to quit ballet.”

“But ballet never really quit you, did it?”

There it is again. _How does he know this stuff?_

She’s momentarily too annoyed to either confirm or deny, so she takes it upon herself to start a new match. He still has speedy reflexes for someone who’s taken five shots, but they’re not speedy enough: she finally beats him, one victory fueled by Ironworks Bluenose Rum and a fierce competitiveness that usually only comes out when she’s comparing grades or spending Christmas with her siblings.

The pang of homesickness surprises her, but gets stuck in her throat. She downs a shot and points her stick at Scott. “I want to know how you know that I used to skate at your mom’s rink.”

Scott takes his own shot, then wipes his mouth and nods. “Okay. I know because I remember you, even though you clearly don’t. I was always at the rink as a kid because, well, my mom owns it. I saw you around. I didn’t participate in any serious competitions, but I was a pretty decent skater. As were you, if I recall correctly."

"I take it you played hockey?"

He grins. "Yeah. It’s funny, really, because one day, my aunt—who was also my coach at the time—walked in and she joked about setting me up with this girl. You know, to try ice dance. I remember, because Danny—my brother—still jokes about it at Christmas. He always says I could’ve ended up with this girl, Big Hands, and lived this epic fairytale if I'd pursued ice dance. Anyway, the day my aunt wanted to compare our heights to see if we would be a good match, the girl didn’t show up to practice because—”

“Because she chose ballet.”

He blinks and does a dazed double-take over the rim of his mug, the rest of his words still frozen on his mouth.

“That was me,” Tessa says. She remembers now, how she was supposed to test with a boy that day.

“Big Hands?”

“I always wore these big pink mittens, I guess that’s why your brother called me that.”

“I—fuck, you’re right. That I didn’t remember.” He distractedly takes another gulp, even though he’s not supposed to. “I remember you, but I didn’t remember the girl was you. Fucking hell.”

She’s starting to feel faint now. Looking down at the guy in the hallway of her university residence 700 kilometers away from home, she can’t believe she’s looking at what could have been her past, present and future all wrapped up in one. If she had picked skating, she could’ve ended up with him, and now he’s just...

She doesn’t know what he is. The jerk from down the hall. Or the guy she’s spending Christmas with.

He’s right about one thing, though: fucking hell.

“Let’s take five,” she says, nudging him with her stick. “I need to call my mom. Wish her a merry Christmas.” She doesn’t wait for his answer before she heads back to her room and closes the door.

* * *

**11:37 p.m.**

“Do you regret choosing ballet?”

Tessa doesn’t even sigh anymore at his question when he scores his ninth goal. This time, she's the one who slumps against the wall. She’s pretty raw from the call with her family, who were still up and playing board games like they always do on Christmas Eve. The fact that she isn’t there to celebrate with them this year is ripping her heart out now that she’s no longer distracting her mind with studying.

So much for the sedating effect of alcohol.

“I already told you I don’t regret choosing ballet, Scott.” She drops her stick and takes a shot. “Either you ask another question or we’re playing the final round.”

“Either you answer truthfully or you’re buying those flight tickets, which you are either way, but let’s pretend you haven’t lost yet.”

He knows he’s going to win. She knows it, too.

“Why are you so adamant on getting me to admit that I regret choosing ballet? Why have you made it your mission to—”

“Because I chose hockey, and I know exactly what it’s like to choose something over something else that you love equally as much. There’s no way in hell you’re telling me you’ve never regretted it even a little bit.”

Well, that effectively shuts her up.

She drinks to make it seem like he didn’t just make her fall silent, but that doesn’t help. The look in his eyes is solemn, too solemn.

“What, are you telling me—” she starts, wanting to turn the conversation back to him, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“I tested with another girl after Big Hands—you—left our group. We skated together for a month. I loved ice dance, but I didn’t love the girl, and that’s where things ended.”

“Scott. You were, like, eight.”

“Yes, and at twenty-one, I regret not pursuing ice dance. I don’t regret choosing hockey, but I regret not being able to pursue both.”

“That...” Makes a lot of sense.

“I know,” he says.

 _I shouldn’t have said that out loud_ , she thinks.

She shrugs to counterbalance her accidental agreement. “I still don’t regret choosing ballet, though. That answer hasn’t changed.”

“But you can agree with me that part of you will always wonder about what could’ve been, eh?”

She cocks her head. They’re shoulder to shoulder now; both of them in pajamas, both of them tipsy and stuck at Uni Hall on Christmas Eve. She’s pretty sure the alcohol is to blame for the lump in her throat when she swallows, and she hates that the look in his eyes changes in that moment, almost like he can tell it’s there.

“I guess so,” she says.

“Hm.” He smiles. Zero smugness in his hazel eyes. Only kindness, however temporary that may be.

And that kindness... turns out to be not so temporary at all.

* * *

**11:53 p.m.**

He lets her win the next eight rounds.

She doesn’t know if it’s out of kindness or to get her drunk. That is, until he loses the last round as well. That’s when she knows it’s kindness, although she’s not sure where this sudden change of heart came from.

She apprehensively cocks her head when she scores her tenth goal, whacking her stick against the door. “Scott. You let me win.”

He pops out of his room with both of his palms in the air after having retrieved the puck. “You won. I’m buying the tickets.”

“Okay, but at least let me replace Jamie’s liquor stash.” Which, nineteen rounds in, is pretty much gone.

“Fine.”

They clear away the two goal posts and then she parks herself in his doorway, biting her lip as he calls the airline to inquire about two tickets to London, Ontario. He retains eye contact throughout the entire call, except for the moment when he scribbles something down on a scrap piece of paper on his desk.

“Yes. Yes. That’s perfect. Okay, thank you for the trouble. Merry Christmas to you too.”

Tessa’s heart is nearly beating through her pajama shirt. “Well, did you get them?”

A soft smile blossoms on his face. “I sure did.”

“Awesome! When do we leave? Tomorrow? Do we still get to spend Christmas at home?”

“You are,” he says, and she deflates completely.

“What?”

He hands her the scrap piece of paper. “There was only one seat left on tomorrow’s flight. You’ll have to leave here by six, so please, whatever you do, don’t wake me up.”

“But... we said flights. Plural. How can I go home when I know you’ll be here all by yourself?”

He presses his lips together. To hide a smile, or to hide something else? “I got you the ticket, T. And unlike you, I’m a decent cook. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine, it’s just—”

“So go home. You won. You don’t owe me anything.”

She’s stumped. This was the last thing she was expecting from him, and yet, when she looks at him, she can suddenly see exactly why this is something he would do. She saw the same thing on the day they met, and she saw it again twenty minutes ago when she finally agreed that part of her will always wonder what life would’ve been like if she had chosen skating.

Kindness. Pure, genuine, unabashed kindness that he probably buries underneath loud arrogance most of the time.

She wonders how many other people get to see this side of him, and if Christmas has something to do with it.

“Thanks, but it doesn’t.”

She startles, gulping loudly.

“You say stuff out loud when you’ve had alcohol,” he explains, barking out a laugh. “It’s not Christmas. I guess it’s you.”

He passes her in the doorway. She doesn’t reply until he’s nearly at the end of the hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“Brushing my teeth,” he calls back. He stops; his head is down as if he’s looking at something.

He swivels around with his gaze on his watch, waiting a few more beats, then looks up. “Merry Christmas, T.”

* * *

_December 25, 2008_

**5:41 a.m.**

It’s still snowing when she pads through the hallway on Christmas morning, pulling a giant suitcase behind her. It’s only been a few hours since the hallway hockey tournament with Scott and she didn’t sleep much, so the whole thing feels too present.

Her confusion is still just as present. She feels bad about locking her door and sneaking out of the building when he’s stuck here, but the alternative—spending Christmas day at Uni Hall—makes her want to cry her eyes out.

She can’t stay here for a guy she doesn’t really know and who spent most of his time being a jerk to everyone on their floor. But as she turns the key in the lock, a memory comes back to her.

A vague image of a boy throwing snowballs at her on the ice. He used to throw snowballs at all the girls, so she wasn’t supposed to feel special, but she did.

He shoots hockey pucks at all of their doors, so she isn’t supposed to feel special. But suddenly, she does.

She freezes with the key still in the lock. The feeling accompanying the memory spreads through her body like wildfire, and she looks toward the end of the hallway at his door. That’s when she notices the piece of unlined printer paper.

She leaves her suitcase in the hallway and walks across the landing, stopping inches from his door. She’s already tearing the paper down before she’s finished reading the words he wrote.

_Kicker_

_Curser_

_~~Quiet~~ _

_Terrible cook_

_Business major_

_Freakishly smart_

_Annoyingly humble_

_T_

_Gorgeous Green_

_Overachiever_

_Stubborn but too stubborn to admit it_

_London girl_

_Skater_

_Terrible hockey player (seriously)_

_Competitive_

_~~Funny~~ _

_Funny but doesn’t know it_

_Ballet dancer_

_Homesick_

_Big Hands – **What Could Have Been?**_

The sloppy and seemingly hurried fashion in which the words are jotted down would suggest that he added them as the night went on, beginning when he stole that piece of paper from Jamie’s sprinter. She’s surprised that he managed to do that without her noticing, but even more so at how well it shows the way their night progressed. And it’s the very last entry— _Big Hands – **What Could Have Been?**_ —that literally makes her stop breathing.

He retraced those last four words quite a few times. The paper is dented and, in some spots, even penetrated by the tip of his pen.

There's a rush all the way to her toes. He’s not just the jerk from down the hall, or the guy she spent Christmas Eve with.

He’s her What Could Have Been.


	2. Owe you, owe me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You already knew she wasn't going to leave without him.
> 
> (Spoiler alert: she doesn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read your comments, heard your requests (, squealed a lot), and said absolutely nothing because I wanted this sequel to be a little Christmas Eve surprise. SURPRISE!
> 
> I initially only planned the first 500 words of this chapter, but your enthusiasm fueled my writing, and here we are. The two writing sessions in which I wrote the bulk of this fic were an absolute DREAM I had so much fun. (Literally. I wrote while reaching over a bowl of salad and some vegan nuggets because I just couldn’t stop.) 
> 
> Anyway, overshare. I hope you’re all healthy and safe. Happy holidays!

_December 25, 2008_

**08:26 a.m.**

The residence hall looks deserted but she knows it’s not, and it no longer feels like it is when she makes her way back up the three sets of stairs.

She left her suitcase in the cab, because there’s no point in hauling it back up here when she isn’t planning on staying anyway. She just hopes he’s awake, because they don’t have a lot of time.

She’s panting by the time she reaches their floor, grabbing the staircase to gain some momentum as she launches herself into the hallway. All the doors are closed and exactly how she left them.

No, not exactly.

There’s something sitting by her door. She approaches to see what it is and laughs, _actually_ laughs, when she sees a stack of printer paper he must’ve stolen from a room on another floor, because where else would he get printer paper on Christmas Day on a deserted university campus?

She continues on her way to the end of the hallway and doesn’t hesitate when she bangs on his door. There’s mostly excitement running through her veins at this point, excitement that turns into a surge of something she can’t quite explain when he opens his door.

“What the _hell_ are you still doing here?”

“I couldn’t just get on a plane and leave you here after you let me win. That was a pretty shitty move.”

“Some would call it kind,” he says dryly, going through his hair. He looks like he just woke up, but he smells like he just got out of the shower. “And you’re wasting the money I spent on your flight ticket. That _is_ a pretty shitty move, T.”

“I canceled my ticket,” she stutters, too eager to get to the point of this—that is, if he’ll let her.

“Then that’s an even shittier move. I could’ve been on a plane right now.”

“Will you let me explain, please?”

He raises a brow. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. It’ll take longer, and we’ll only get to London after eight o’clock tonight, but that means you can buy me dinner on the way. If we still want to make it, we have to leave right now. The cab is waiting downstairs. Are you coming with me or are you staying?”

“Make _what_ , T? What are we leaving for? There was only one seat left on that plane and you canc—”

“We’re not taking a plane.” She pulls his ticket out of her coat pocket and thrusts it into his hands like he did with the hockey stick eleven hours ago. “We’re taking the train. And we have to leave, right now.”

His jaw drops. The smirk on her face stretches from ear to ear. She suddenly knows how to explain the feeling that replaced the excitement when he opened his door: it’s the exact opposite of homesickness.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I do owe you. If I hadn’t chosen ballet, you would’ve tested with Big Hands that day and we both would’ve picked ice dance. I owe you a whole other life.”

“T. You were, like, six.”

“I know.” She stares a little harder. He seems to get it now, but he needs more.

“How do you know would’ve picked ice dance?”

“Because I do. I just needed a chance to get to know you.” She pinches his arm. “Merry Christmas to you too, Scotty.”

* * *

**08:44 a.m.**

“Are you sure you have everything? Because you packed that duffel bag in, like, two minutes.”

They’re descending the stairs of the Gare Central in Montreal, along with a crowd of people who are traveling home for Christmas, and Tessa’s skepticism of the personal belongings Scott is bringing home with him has finally reached a pinnacle.

There was no time to question his packing earlier, but now, when all that’s left to do is to head to the right gate and wait for the train to pull into the station, she can’t help but think how she could probably only fit a single bedsheet in the bag that’s slung over his shoulder.

And _he_ can’t help but smirk at her.

She shoves him. “ _What_.”

“Not all of us pack for a trip to the North Pole when we leave home, T.”

“Which isn’t a fair argument, given that Montreal reaches North Pole temperatures in the winter.” She demonstratively shivers, because _fuck_ , even in the train station it’s still freezing.

“Fair enough. Doesn’t change the fact that I was perfectly fine rotating three shirts all semester.”

She snaps her head sideways and nearly misses a step. “ _Three_ shirts? You—"

“I’m just messing with you. So tell me, where do they sell suitcases that big? Santa’s workshop?”

There’s no time for a snarky reply, because the line is moving and Scott is suddenly faced with a French-speaking employee who’s asking him for his boarding pass. Tessa is next, and they follow the sea of college students and business suits to the right platform. While Scott takes off to buy some breakfast, Tessa pulls out her BlackBerry to let her mom know that she didn’t miss the train.

It’s another eleven hours before they get home, but Christmas already feels a lot closer than it did yesterday.

She spends the next ten minutes scribbling down notes in the margins of her textbook on the fundamentals of project management while Scott happily munches on a donut. When the train finally pulls into the station and they get in line to board, she’s so distracted that she nearly doesn’t notice how the train attendant gestures to the next carriage when it’s her turn.

She stops. Scott is already halfway up the stairs and looking at her over his shoulder, but the look in the train attendant’s eyes is insistent.

Not wanting to hold up the line, Tessa starts moving. She tries to say something but only manages a look, and he nods like it’s okay. He disappears into the carriage, and she does the same in the adjoining one.

Dropping down in her seat after putting away her suitcase, she feels weirdly deflated.

It’s that feeling when he told her he only got one plane ticket all over again. She can’t make sense of it.

* * *

**09:20 a.m.**

“Alright, so I’ve been thinking.”

His voice nearly makes her propel herself out of her seat in Dorval, where they’ve just come to a stop for what can’t be more than a few minutes.

She slaps her book down on the foldable table in front of her, still catching her breath when she looks up at him. “What on _earth_ are you doing here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll head back before we start moving again.” Scott smiles happily, one arm resting on the overhead rack and a bottle of Heineken dangling from his fingers.

“Already back to drinking, eh?” she asks.

“Cures the hangover,” he says. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve been thinking.”

“Have you? About the subject you don’t understand?” She glances up hopefully and smiles apologetically on behalf of Scott when another passenger tries to make his way past him. The latter seems unbothered by any of his surroundings.

“No. I have a suggestion.”

His last suggestion resulted in them taking nineteen shots over the course of an hour and a half. If the bottle of Heineken is anything to go by, this suggestion will be much of the same, and she’s not willing to go another day without being sober.

Especially not on Christmas.

“No.”

“You’ve said that before and you played along anyway.”

“I won’t. Not this time.” She glances out of the window. Surely, they must be getting ready to take off again.

Scott seems to sense the same thing. He drops his head to look out of her window for a second, leaning in closer than necessary.

“To be continued,” he says abruptly, then swirls around and heads back to jump out of the train, since they’re in two separate carriages without a corridor connection.

Tessa is silently staring at the seat in front of her when the train starts moving again. Her gaze shifts to the textbooks in the second, smaller bag by her feet.

She’s never going to get anything done while he’s around, is she?

* * *

**10:57 a.m.**

They pass Cornwall without a visit from Scott, but she catches herself looking over her shoulder in anticipation anyway.

No, wait. It’s not anticipation, is it? It’s in preparation, so she knows when to divert her attention from her books since he won’t let her study anyway.

Even in her head, that doesn’t sound believable.

Okay, so she _is_ anticipating another visit. It’s not a crime to admit that, right? In hindsight, she’s even glad she is, because it means she’s one step ahead of him when they stop in Brockville and Scott appears at the top of the stairs with a cup of hot chocolate and a tube of Pringles.

She jumps up, joining him in the vestibule in the back of the carriage before he can block another passenger’s way. “Second breakfast?” she asks, pointing out the snacks in his hands.

“No. I have a suggestion.”

“Let’s hear it.”

His eyebrows jump up his forehead. “Wait, really?”

“Yes. Can’t hurt to hear your suggestion, can it?”

He takes a big breath and holds it, then lets it out noisily. He wasn’t prepared for that answer. “Okay.”

“You probably only have two minutes left, so make it quick.”

“Fine.” The grin on his face reappears. “We’re spending the next ten hours on this—”

“Nine, technically.”

“—train and I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Clearly,” she nods.

“So. How about we make this a little more interesting.”

That sounds all too familiar, but it can’t possibly be worse than last night. Unless he’s hiding them in his bag, he doesn’t have any hockey sticks this time.

“I dare you to get that guy’s hat without asking him for it.”

She frowns, following Scott’s pointed finger to a college-aged kid with a Santa hat a few rows ahead. “You want me to steal that guy’s hat?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask for what reason, other than every warning you got as a kid _not_ to wear another person’s hat because it’s, frankly, disgusting?”

“Precisely for that reason.” He pokes the tip of his tongue through his lips. “If you bring me the hat in Kingston, which is our next stop, you’re getting these goodies.” He holds up the hot chocolate and the Pringles.

She looks longingly at the hot chocolate, but only for a second. “You’re buying me dinner anyway. Remember that expensive train ticket I bought for you?”

“We didn’t say anything about breakfast.”

Chocolate milk and Pringles are not worth the Santa hat. She knows it, and yet she’s looking over her shoulder, observing Santa Hat Guy and the two girls he’s chatting up.

But they’ve waited too long. The train starts with a jolt and Tessa looks around at Scott in alarm.

“Guess I’m hanging out here until we get to Kingston,” he says.

“They’re not going to let you sit in the vestibule for an hour.”

“Don’t worry about me. You have an hour to get that Santa hat.”

“And what if I accept your dare? I get breakfast, and then what?”

He smiles broadly, sliding down the wall until he’s sitting cross-legged. “Then you get to ask me a dare.”

She’s tempted to decline, just like was yesterday. But she’s even more tempted to play his games than she was yesterday, because there are nine hours left on this journey and because she can't get the last four words he wrote on that piece of printer paper (which is now buried in her suitcase) out of her head.

**What Could Have Been?**

She doesn’t want to wonder about what could have been this time around. She wants to live it before it slips out of her hands, because it very well could when they get to London.

Besides, they’re stuck here anyway. Might as well—how did he put it again?

 _Live a little_.

* * *

**11:42 a.m.**

She waits until they almost reach Kingston, because it seems unwise to steal something without having at least one possible escape route.

The act of plucking the hat off his head is simple. The aftermath, not so much.

She runs for it. Far too late, she realizes Scott is the only one with a legitimate escape route, unless she follows him off the train and into his carriage.

Which she does.

She tosses the hat at him in passing and bolts, not worried about the consequences of her actions until she’s sitting in Scott’s carriage and the doors shut behind them. She has her ticket and her BlackBerry in her pocket, but she left all of her other belongings in the adjoining carriage, and now she’s stuck here for at least another forty minutes, when they stop in Belleville.

“They’re not going to steal your books, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She looks at Scott, her breathing heavy from the short sprint between the two carriages. He’s putting on the Santa hat and looking a little too happy with himself.

“I can’t believe you made me steal that guy’s hat.”

“I can’t believe you actually went through with it.” He hands her the chocolate milk that was hot an hour ago and steals a Pringle before handing the rest of tube to her as well. “You’ll be glad to know that he’s getting off in Belleville. I checked beforehand, I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“How did you—”

“Zee powah of zee mind,” he says eerily, pulling a funny face while twirling his fingers around his head, and she can’t hold in a laugh.

“This is a pretty solid breakfast, though,” she says, sitting down next to him. “Nothing screams college kid like consuming cold hot chocolate and an entire tube of Pringles on the floor of a train.”

“Aren’t you glad you chose school over ballet now? Who knows what kind of losers you’d be hanging out with right now.”

She punches his arm but grins regardless. “You’re not afraid to put yourself on a pedestal, are you?”

He hooks his elbows around his knees, rocking sideways with the movements of the train. “My momma put me up there when I was born and I’ve never felt the need to get off, thank you very much.”

“So you’re the youngest, huh?”

“Positive. You?”

“Likewise.” She raises the tube of Pringles towards his still-full bottle of Heineken and, in doing so, notices the conductor making his way to their vestibule with a stern look on his face.

“Shit,” she mutters right before he halts in front of them, and Scott sits bolt upright.

“Boarding passes?” the conductor asks.

They both hand him their boarding passes, Tessa awkwardly working her way to her feet in the now confined space. “I’m so sorry, I'm supposed to be in the adjoining carriage, but the doors closed before I could get back to my seat after talking to my friend.”

The conductor gazes between the two of them, his eyes briefly flitting over Scott’s Santa hat. “Why aren’t you sitting together, then?”

“We would if there was room,” Scott answers from the floor, and Tessa, sensing he’s going to say something sarcastic that might get them kicked out, stands on his pinky to shut him up.

Scott utters a single peep that he manages to swallow before the conductor notices.

“Get back to your seat in Belleville, okay?”

“Will do,” Tessa says, as solemnly as possible.

Scott, having more trouble to keep in the peep now, gestures wildly for her to get off his pinky. She waits until the conductor has turned around before she does so.

“ _Fucking hell_ , woman.”

She moves back to the floor, her eyes still on the back of the conductor. “You were going to say something stupid.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Why do I not believe that?”

He grumbles under his breath. She pats his pinky and resumes sipping on the chocolate milk. By the time they pull into Belleville, she’s emptied both the cup and the tube of Pringles.

“Okay, your turn,” she says when the train is slowing down again. “I want you to ask that lady to draw a sketch of you.” She’s looking at a lady with a sketching book, so unless he has a hidden talent for sketching, she’ll know if he tries to draw the picture himself.

He nods. “I can do that.”

“Great. Report back to me in my vestibule. We’re not switching carriages again.”

And with that, she gets up, jumping out of the train as soon as the doors open up.

* * *

**18:12 p.m.**

As the day goes on and they become bolder, so do their dares.

He delivers the sketch to her in Cobourg, and it’s magnificent. She runs the length of two carriages and back in Oshawa. He spends the stretch between Oshawa and Guildwood playing cards with an older gentleman, who writes a report of their game on a napkin as proof. When they switch trains in Toronto for the second stretch of their journey, they again pick seats in adjoining carriages, intentionally this time, and she kisses a guy on the cheek. He meets her in the vestibule in Oakville with dinner and another cup of chocolate, still hot this time.

He learns that she’s good with people and puts ketchup on everything. She learns that his drawing skills are abysmal and that his attention span is longer than she ever would’ve imagined.

Other travelers start to catch on. Not everyone appreciates their games, so they make sure to pick their fellow passengers carefully after Scott reports back about the murdering look he got from an exhausted dad with four kids.

Tessa has never felt this invigorated in her life. But in Aldershot, things almost go wrong.

She's finished dinner by the time the train slows down, but she’s still on the hunt for three specific items Scott dared her to find, which include eyeliner and a map of Toronto. She hasn’t found the latter yet when the train already comes to a stop, and despite knowing they’re just playing a game, she panics.

He meets her in the vestibule. She gives him the eyeliner and shows him the stamp on her hand from the little girl in the row next to her, the second item on his list. “I didn’t have enough time for the map.”

“No one is carrying a map of Toronto?”

“No, I checked.”

“Shit.”

“I know.” They haven’t broken their streak yet, and it feels wrong to do so now. “What do you suggest?”

He looks around for inspiration. “Tell me the boldest thing you’ve ever said and you’re off the hook.”

She laughs. “Oh, come on.”

“What? Are you keeping secrets from me?”

She laughs again. It sounds a little darker this time. “I once told a guy I would kick him in the balls if he ever shot a hockey puck at our door again.”

Five different emotions flash over his face all at once, and he steps down to head back to his carriage. Amusement is the emotion that sticks. “My dare?” he asks.

They can both hear the whistle in the distance. “Boldest thing you’ve ever done,” she says.

The amusement on his face evaporates. The other emotions that were so clear a moment ago are now a blur, and it’s because he’s suddenly up in her face, she realizes a beat too late, closer than he’s ever come, bolder than he’s ever been.

He kisses her, and she’s not ready.

She wouldn’t call the first kick in his crotch in the hallway of McGill a reflex, but the second one definitely is. He bites down on the tip of her tongue as he reaches for his groin and crumples, and they both yelp when he stumbles off the stairs. 

There’s no time. The whistle sounds again; Scott gives her a look that penetrates her before he turns and bolts.

She doesn’t even know if he makes it back onto the train until the next stop.

* * *

**18:44 p.m.**

Aldershot to Brantford, one of the last stops before London, is a thirty-minute journey. She waits in the vestibule for most of it, only returning to her seat to soak her tongue in her water bottle.

The little girl who gave her the stamp earlier is openly staring at her. Tessa thinks she must look like a lunatic, with crimson cheeks and tears ready to burst, but they never do. She’s too occupied to let them.

Occupied by her spinning thoughts, but mostly by the mental rewind of Scott suddenly being right in front of her and pressing his lips onto hers.

She didn’t even see him lean in; it happened before she knew it was happening, and then her knee brought an end to it.

Unlike the first time she kicked him, she’s mortified. She didn’t mean to hurt him. She wants to check on him, make sure he didn’t get injured. Being hit in the groin twice in less than twenty-four hours can’t be beneficial for his ability to procreate.

When her spinning thoughts turn into essay questions and the little girl with the stamp turns her stare into a frown, Tessa knows she’s freaking out, and she gets back to the vestibule to sit down on the floor.

It’s another twenty minutes before the train slows down. The view outside the window is a solid navy blue, lit up in the distance by whirls of snow every once in a while. She’s supposed to get out and meet him in the adjoining carriage, but she stays seated on the floor of the vestibule, only pulling herself up when the doors open up with an exhausted, wheezing sound.

He’s on the other side, just like she knew he would be.

“You kicked me in the crotch,” he says. "Again."

“You kissed me.”

“I didn’t shoot a puck at your door again, did I?”

“You kissed me.”

“Because you asked me to.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me.”

“It was part of the dare.”

“No, it wasn’t. You made it part of the dare.”

“You asked me about the boldest thing I’ve ever done.”

“That was the boldest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Kissing the girl I’ve had a crush on since the day she tried to speak French to me because she thought I was from Montreal? Yeah, I would say so.”

They both fall silent, unspoken words burning in their eyes. Tessa’s thoughts are racing, jumping and tumbling on top of each other. There’s too little time to process this information before the train will start moving again.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says.

He stays silent for another beat and then shrugs his shoulders against the cold. “Whatever. It’s your turn. Stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Give me the answer when we’re in London.”

And with that, he starts backing up, reaching the slippery platform when Tessa first realizes how glad she is he made it back onto the train.

“Scott, wait, I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter, T. Game goes on, eh? I want an answer by the time we get home.”

He really leaves this time. She sticks her head out of the train to watch him walk across the platform and get back on safely, but he doesn’t turn around again.

When Tessa wants to get back to her seat, the little girl with the stamp is standing inches away from her, a lollypop popping out her mouth.

“C’est votre petit ami?”

Tessa lets go of her breath. She’s been lying to herself about not speaking a word of French, because she understands the little girl perfectly.

“Non, nous ne sommes pas un couple.”

* * *

**19:55 p.m.**

Woodstock and Ingersoll are the only two stops where they don’t meet. She doesn’t look over her shoulder because she knows he’s not coming; it’s her turn to complete the final dare.

She thinks about kissing him, because that would certainly be the stupidest thing she’s ever done, and then she thinks about why she’s thinking about kissing him. She never thought about kissing him before he surprised her like that. Before she kicked him in the crotch a second time.

She really does feel bad, but he shouldn’t have sprung it on her like that. She clearly didn’t consent... in the moment.

Would she consent now?

She doesn’t know if she would.

She has her suitcase and the bag with unused textbooks ready to go by the time they arrive in London. She wants to be the first person off the train, to get to her family but also to apologize to Scott, but the little girl beats her to it. She stands in front of Tessa until the doors slide open, as tall and proud as her roughly 42 inches can make her look, and when she doesn’t immediately move when a cold wind sweeps into the train, Tessa nearly tumbles across her.

“Excusez-moi, uhm, je...”

“C’est votre petit ami!”

Tessa struggles to regain her balance, especially when her frantic steps to get around the girl without knocking her over with the suitcase turn into slippery steps on the ice-covered platform in London. She does a less than graceful twirl and, in the midst of said twirl, sees Scott standing between their two carriages, the duffle bag over his shoulder and the Santa head pulled down over his ears.

He’s smiling. Tessa stops slipping, feeling a lot like Bambi on ice for the first time. Behind her, the parents of the little girl are ushering her out of the train so the other passengers can get out as well, but Tessa barely notices.

“Kicking you in the crotch the second time,” she says, raising her voice so he can hear her over the wind. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

He lightly shakes his head, securing the bag on his shoulder. “It wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was,” she says.

He takes a few careful steps toward her. “Kissing you when you didn’t want me to. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Her lips are already numb, but her tongue isn’t. It’s still throbbing where he bit her.

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

She presses her lips together and wants to try and take a step as well, but he stops her. 

“Most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Scott, I—"

“Most honest thing you’ve ever said,” he repeats. “It’s your turn.”

“How long do want to keep doing this for? I need to—”

“I know you need to get home, but I need you to stay until I can tell you mine.” He takes a few more steps, until he’s close enough for the cloud of his breath to hit her face.

She squeezes the handle of her suitcase, trying to think while the cold is numbing her face, arms and legs. “That I regret not pursuing skating aside from ballet. I’ve never told anyone that before, mostly because I didn’t know. But I do regret it.” She brushes some wispy strands of hair out of her face. “What’s yours?”

The muscles in his jaw contract quite a few times before he answers. “You were right about the meaningless relationships. I’ve felt lonelier than I've ever felt since starting university. I don’t belong in a big city like Montreal. I’ve thought about dropping out every day for the last three weeks, which is why I stayed late after my exams. I wanted to figure that out before returning home. I haven’t bonded with anyone the way I did with you these last two days.”

“What about Ollie?”

“He’s been my roommate since September and all I really know about him is that he likes hockey and that he snores.”

“I snore,” she says. “That is, my sister says I do.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up, a smile that looks a bit wonky because he probably can’t feel half of his face. “I do too.”

“I won’t tell Jamie about the piece of paper you stole. Or the liquor.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“You owe me,” she says.

“I think we’re even,” he says.

They both have half-frozen smiles on their faces now. She turns more thoughtful when she chews on the inside of what she can’t possibly determine anymore is her cheek or not, and then she reaches up and kisses him.

His breath is hot, and there’s no kicking or biting of any kind this time. She gently nudges the tip of this tongue, to say sorry. He holds her face in his hands to keep her warm but doesn't touch any other part of her, to say sorry.

She pulls him closer by his waist. They _are_ even.

“Something I never thought I would do,” she says softly when they let go, still locked in an embrace.

“Want to do something _I_ never thought I would do?” he asks.

“What, it's not this?”

He smirks. “No. How about we test our skating skills, Big Hands? To see if we avoided a disaster by sticking with hockey and ballet?”

“You want to go skating together? Tonight?”

“Not tonight, silly.” He rolls his eyes dramatically, taking the giant suitcase from her.

They’re the last two people to walk off the platform. They join the festive bustle of people in the main building, and that’s when Tessa realizes she’s no longer walking next to her What Could Have Been. He’s very much her What Is Right Now.

“You, me, the Ilderton Skating Club,” he says when they walk out. “See you there when the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve. Are you in?”

They pause right outside of the building. Tessa thinks she can see her brother’s car, but they’re still invisible behind the curtain of the snow. “Whose turn is it to complete a dare, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you expect me to sneak into your mom's rink on New Year’s Eve. I don’t have a key.”

“So you’re in?”

“Well, I’m still supposed to be studying until one o’clock that night, so...” She doesn’t mean a word of it this time.

“It will be New Year’s Eve. Live a little, T.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Great,” he says.

And with a grin goofier than she was expecting but was totally prepared for, he gathers some snow and throws it straight into the air. 


End file.
